


Angels In Hell

by BranSP



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Angels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranSP/pseuds/BranSP
Summary: A short story about what it felt like being a closeted trans woman in an abusive family.
Kudos: 1





	Angels In Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written as a way for me to cope with the trauma I suffered while closeted to a family that I knew might never accept me. Those were dark times, and were it not for the advice of several close friends and loved ones, this story would have merely reflected the despair I felt instead of taking the form it currently has.
> 
> Much time has passed since I originally wrote this story, but it was always my desire to share it around, which is why I decided to finally bring it here. I hope this story can be cathartic to anyone who has found themselves in a similar situation, it certainly lifted a huge weight off of my shoulders by writing it.

“You’re having one of those dreams again, aren’t you?”

The question catches me off guard as I am pulled back to reality. A room pops into existence around me as I’m locked back into place, with her.

“Mm, I was… it was an extremely pleasant time until you woke me out of it.”

She frowns as she stares me over. My bonds begin to feel a bit uncomfortable. Finally, she speaks up, “You haven’t really got wings, you know, so you should pull yourself out of that flying fantasy.”

My chains relax, allowing me to better hide my wings as she says that. As I oblige, they attempt to tighten gently, lovingly… but they nevertheless fail to hide their true nature. “Yes, of course not, mom…” I say, defeated.

There must have been a hint of discomfort that I failed to hide from my tone, however, because she continued on. It went on for longer than I could keep full focus, but it was always the same anyway. She lectured me about how I should be more grateful for my chains, which were made of finer, comfier materials than those of our neighbors. While everyone else’s corroded and branded marks on the flesh when they commuted to work through the boiling acid pits, ours only occasionally ignited if we failed to avoid the kerosene rain before walking in.

I look down at my arms, a mistake. The dream is very hazy now, but it feels as if they were smoother there, that they somehow just fit better.

“Hey… is there something bothering you?”

I look back up at the face of my mother and see concern in her eyes. For a moment, I almost want to tell her.

“No, I’m fine, mom”

She looks me over, clearly not buying it, but knowing any further pushing is hopeless. “I understand it’s hard,” she starts. “These aren’t easy for me either,” she says while shaking a fistful of chains. “But this is the best things are going to get,” she tells me with a hint of resigned sadness.

Before I get a chance to respond, the front door bursts open. My mind races as I carefully try to make my escape. “Hi dad,” I calmly let out as I sneak past him. He nods. I don’t even make it halfway up the stairs before the whole house shakes with a horrible, ear-splitting noise. It’s not directed at me this time, but nevertheless I have to struggle to keep from collapsing on the spot. It never gets any easier. Can’t worry about who’s getting it. Go up the stairs to my room. Fidget with doorknob. Hand shakes. Get body through. Close it. Put my headphones on.

The sound still reverberates through me. My breathing becomes a bit ragged as I try to calm myself down. The fact that I can still somewhat hear it going on downstairs doesn’t help. It reminds me of how powerless I feel. Anything I could do to stop it only puts a target on my back and does nothing to remove the one on theirs. My laptop has powered on. I tab through a few places where I can focus my thoughts instead.

As I calm down and immerse myself here, most of my bonds finally loosen. I allow them to softly sink onto my chair. I try to do so quietly. My wings ache, and they take advantage of the temporary freedom to stretch themselves out. Poor wretched things, maybe someday they’ll be strong enough for me to fly away for real. My thoughts are interrupted by a perceived footstep, and my hand rushes to the chains. A few moments pass… nothing. I turn back to my laptop, one hand still gripping my binds…

…

…

…

I know I’m not alone. I’ve known for a long time. And I don’t mean my family, who shares my experiences but probably not my feelings, no. There’s a wide world outside this house, and it’s filled with places like this. Why then, when I tell my story, do I feel so painfully solitary in my suffering? Why does my brain look at the words which I violently wrung out of my soul, and feel as though they were written by another? Why, when I think of the abuse I’ve suffered throughout my life, is my only emotion an all-encompassing emptiness? 

And yet, despite these unanswerable questions about the apparent uniqueness of my experiences, I know I cannot be alone. For when I hear others share their pain with me, I sometimes feel a deep resonance within me. They use words I would never think to use, and describe situations I’ve never been in, and yet, on some higher level, I understand them.

It gives me hope. Hope that, even though I am a pathetic and broken creature with very little power to wield, I can create the same feeling in others. To those who have escaped, to those who are still trapped, and in memory of those who did not make it, I cast out this line pulled from my innermost depths. A new kind of chain that ties us not to our troubles, but to the reminder that we are never alone.


End file.
